Modernism, a Rime Royal By Mfwilkie
Night's light is broken, and my silhouette
must trust the moon to free itself, reveal
my life—my loving him with no regret.
The edges of my face do not conceal
my feelings. They support a smile as real
as yesterday's hope. I think Shakespeare suffered
as I have suffered. I, at least recovered
enough to leave you concrete details: June.
The weather, between seasons. Time to party!
Music—the mix in any good saloon.
He came. Exuberant! Unrestrained! Hearty.
If Will were here, he'd film our scenes with arty
touches. How could he not. I loved him well.
And he, me. ::Fade to tern, and rising swell.
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